


keep it close (when they're coming for us)

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (kind of), Episode: s02e05 Eye of the Storm, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 02, Semi-Public Sex, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Shiro told them all to rest and recharge, but doesn't follow his own advice.Luckily, Keith's there.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	keep it close (when they're coming for us)

_Go rest,_ he tells himself for the fiftieth time. 

Shiro wishes he can take his own advice, but on the nights where he actually makes it back to his room and collapses into bed fully clothed—he refuses to wear the Black Paladin pajamas and still wants to spare Keith the sight of his battered chest—he never seems to be able to sleep. 

He remembers being able to nod off anywhere and stay asleep—Adam liked to tease him about missing a number of midnight drills as a cadet—running solely on caffeine and cafeteria mac and cheese. In class and meeting briefs, he’s dozed off with his hand firmly pressed into his palm, later looking as if someone had struck him full in the face. He’s even fallen asleep in zero gravity, much to the amusement of Matt, who used to arrange him in ludicrous poses in the cabin. _Expert pilot Takashi Shirogane, unable to resist the gravitational pull of a mattress._

Now, closing his eyes feels like a plea, strategies and star charts whirling inside of his head like a light that won’t turn off. It shouldn’t be this way—they’re running drills or fighting off Galra ships every day, and there’s no coffee in space, something everyone’s viewed as a moral failure of the Alteans. His sleep schedule’s always been fucked, but prison seems to have been a nail in the coffin. 

Also, he thinks his left hand, which has been curled around console controls for the past several hours, may be stuck. 

The doors slide open behind him, and Shiro cranes his neck to see Keith, striding towards him. He’s not wearing his Earth clothes or paladin armor, but something Shiro’s never seen before— red swimming trunks. He wonders where Keith got them, if the castle has some sort of secret wardrobe he’s never heard of, or all the paladins had a spare change of clothes that miraculously fit all of them—

Suddenly, though, the mystery of Keith’s wardrobe doesn’t seem to matter when he drapes over the console like a cat. “Shiro. Still up?” 

“As always,” Shiro dryly says. “What’s with the getup—or lack of it?” 

Keith rolls his eyes. "I was going to the pool, then Lance was, too, so I decided that was out—especially since I realized you'd be working when you told us to get some rest." With a quick smirk, he lifts his leg and swings around the console, then slowly puts his hands on Shiro’s shoulders. His knees hit Shiro’s, and Shiro inhales. 

Keith’s eyes flicker to the hand still wrapped around the controls. “What? You that committed?” 

Shiro shifts guiltily in his seat. “Too stiff.” 

Keith shrugs. “I can work with that,” he says. 

Their lips meet slowly, Shiro craning his neck as Keith takes his head in his hands, cradling it tenderly, thumbs stroking over his jaw. He tastes like the snacks Hunk made the other day, tangy and sweet like barbeque sauce, and his lips are slightly dry. Keith used to lick them absentmindedly, back at the Garrison; he was always losing the balms Matt plied him with that Pidge never wanted but got for birthdays and holidays anyway. There was once something like pineapple and coconut, remembers going through the rest of the day conscious of the stickiness and faint sugary scent on his own lips. 

Keith’s hands slide down to run down the length of Shiro’s neck, before wrapping his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, and Shiro closes his eyes, focusing on the slide of Keith’s tongue running across the seam of his lips, the soft puffs of air emptying into his lungs. Eventually, Keith’s right hand trails down between their bodies, slowly beginning to rub against fabric.

Too soon, Shiro feels himself start to respond and starts to squirm away. "Keith," he manages. "We're on the deck—"  
  
"Coran's down in the system controls, Allura's sleeping. Hunk and Pidge are in the kitchen. And yes, even the mice are nowhere to be seen." Keith gestures to himself, then begins undoing Shiro's belt. "And I'm already halfway undressed, so..."  
  
"Keith," Shiro breathes, and knows he's lost.  
  
In response, Keith gets his pants open, bends his knees, and swallows him down, looking up at him through lidded eyes. Shiro leans back in his seat, clutching the controls harder, trying to remember to be careful because he doesn't need to destroy the ship, but Keith, Keith is so good—  
  
Keith knows all the things he loves, and too soon, Shiro loses himself, in the heat of Keith's mouth, in his clever hands. He tries not to thrust forward too much or touch any of the controls, the Altean systems so responsive that they might be thrown into hyperdrive—  
  
"Keith," he tries, whether to tell Keith to slow down or keep going, he cannot say, because it's all over very quickly—too quickly.  
  
Still on his knees, Keith laughs. "You sure needed to relax." 

"Speak for yourself," Shiro retorts weakly. 

"I am," Keith says, then kisses him again. 

With a groan of effort, Shiro forces his left hand to unclench, moving around to get the pins and needles before winding it through Keith's hair. He has his right hand, he knows, much more coordinated and never tiring, but still doesn’t dare. It’s a weapon; he must never forget that. He's tired, so tired, but he wants Keith so badly, he's right, they haven't done this since—

Since Zarkon, since Haggar…

“Get them out of your head,” Keith says, and Shiro realizes he’s been thinking out loud again. “They don’t belong here. It’s just you and me.” With that, he slips through the open space and swings his left leg over Shiro’s lap.

It’s a tight fit, Keith’s body leaning away from the console and pressing into Shiro’s chest; he automatically braces his hands against Keith’s hips. “Keith? What are you—”  
  
Keith straddles him, unbothered and uninhibited. “What do you think?” he asks, before beginning to fumble with the clasps on Shiro’s vest. "Why do you have so many _clothes_?"  
  
"To frustrate you," Shiro says, and gets a light smack for his cheek. He takes pity on Keith, though, and deftly unsnaps the fasteners, slipping out of his vest and letting it slide off his seat and onto the floor. He then reaches for the hem of his undershirt, then hesitates.

“You won’t like it,” he warns. 

“I like everything about you, Takashi Shirogane,” Keith replies. 

Shiro takes a deep breath for courage, and lifts the hem of his shirt, a warning in his slowness. Bit by bit, scars are revealed; he waits for Keith to pull away, to realize he’s no longer whole. They’re ugly, he knows they are, war played out on his flesh with twists and jagged edges and warps. 

But Keith moves, tender and slow, to press his mouth against one trailing into the waistband of his pants, moving his fingers to caress a row of puckered lines, a crude set of stitches he doesn’t remember being done to him. Ridges, too, like miniature peaks and valleys, and gashes that make him think of claws. 

There’s so many he’s lost track of, tries not to linger too long on in the shower, where he’s alone with nothing but his body. He was proud of it, once, despite its internal failings: the picture of perfect health. Keith had tackled him more than once after training, murmuring praise and worship between hurried kisses and groping more appropriate for a high school makeout session than a military facility. 

But Keith acknowledges each wound with his lips or fingertips, saving the slash across his cheekbones for last. 

And when he pulls Shiro’s shirt over his shoulders, his face, he doesn’t protest. 

Keith's almost frantic now, running his hands along his body, trembling and eager, and Shiro remembers their first night in the Castle, adrenaline and anxiety and reuniting, frantic against time. Keith had been beautiful, gasping underneath him as Shiro touched him, pulling him closer, kissing every inch of bare skin he could get his mouth on. He'd been hungry for more than survival this time, but it had felt more like a fight than a fuck: Shiro pinning Keith to the mattress and greedily claiming everything he could touch, taking each cry like a victory.  
  
He now glides his hands up Keith's legs, feeling bare thighs and soft downy hair. Keith groans as Shiro murmurs in appreciation, roaming his hands over to cup Keith's ass and squeeze.  
  
"Shiro," Keith gasps, "come on—"  
  
"Shh," he says, running his hands slowly up Keith's thighs. "You said to relax. And you're so tense, here." He squeezes again, teasing. "Maybe you need some rest?"  
  
Keith glares at him. "I swear, Shiro—"  
  
"Thank you for distracting me," he says, before reaching into Keith's trunks.  
  
He jerks Keith off, Keith squirming in his seat, teeth clamping down on Shiro's shoulder. A burst of pain, then pressuring, tighter, branding into his skin. He loves Keith, his spitfire, his paladin—

Keith’s breaths increase in tempo, and soon, his mouth opens wide. Shiro imagines his cries echoing across the deck, across the empty yawning of space. He’ll make Keith call for him across the universe, for him—

He moves away to lick his palm, making sure to also slip his fingers, one at a time, into his mouth, sucking slowly. Keith groans, fidgeting impatiently, until Shiro’s hand finally dips down between them again, sliding past the stretchy waistband and across curls and flesh. Keith’s warm, and Shiro cups his fingers around the shape of him, sweeping them up, caressing, drawing them down again, resuming a rhythm he knows by heart. 

With a cry, Keith comes, and slumps against him, boneless and sated, as Shiro cradles him, murmuring soft nothings. He feels Keith trembling in his arms, and nuzzles the back of his neck. "You're wild, Keith."  
  
"Mm." Keith mutters. "That all you got in you?"  
  
Shiro rolls his eyes. "You can barely move. It's very flattering, by the way."  
  
"So? I don't have to move. I can stay right here." Pointedly, Keith takes Shiro's hand, pushing it back into his trunks, just as the doors open.  
  
"I can't—oh!"  
  
Allura looks mortified, hand coming up to shield her eyes as Shiro slowly raises his hands in the air. Keith groans, putting his head on Shiro's chest, hiding his face.  
  
"Uh." Shiro coughs, as Keith subtly wipes his hand on the thigh of his swim trunks. "Princess. We...is everything all right?"  
  
As if in response, the entire ship shakes, purple light flashing across the windows.   
  
"We're a whole galaxy away!" Allura cries, still not looking at them. Just as well. "How did they find us?"  
  
It's very undignified, Keith adjusting his trunks and scrabbling over to the controls, Shiro being forced to sit down with his chest bared to the entire observation deck. Soon, the Paladins are running in—Lance the latest with a frantic story about how he got stuck in an elevator—and everything is absolute chaos and Shiro's fighting down hormones swelling up with the adrenaline, vowing he will never, ever end up in this same situation again. 

**Author's Note:**

> "So," Lance finally says, "were you two...?"


End file.
